


Interlude: Silent Cypress

by KHansen



Series: Into the Jaskierverse [10]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Curse Breaking, Dark Magic, Gen, Gore, Graphic Description, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Identity Reveal, Into the Jaskierverse, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Mystery, Non-Graphic Smut, Torture, Trans Male Character, universe hopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26555275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: Are you still yourself if you’ve been ripped apart and put back together again?Eskel comes across an unconscious Julian who positively reeks of untamed chaos and doesn't remember their friendship upon waking. Something isn't quite right here, but with a curse of the dying upon the land, their attentions are needed elsewhere. What's causing this curse, could Julian have something to do with it?***A non-canonical tale from Blossoms in Their Bouquet
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel (The Witcher)/Original Male Character(s), Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Male Character(s)
Series: Into the Jaskierverse [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895545
Comments: 12
Kudos: 134





	Interlude: Silent Cypress

**Author's Note:**

> This story is non-canonical in the Blossoms in Their Bouquet universe. It takes place four years after the dragon hunt in the Blossoms timeline.
> 
> Please note that Eskel is not aware of Julian (Jaskier's) real identity when they have sex, however both parties do consent.
> 
> Ashwood of Daevon belongs to [concertconfetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertconfetti/pseuds/concertconfetti).

The pounding of the void between universes bombards his consciousness, making him feel indescribable pain. It’s like he’s being ripped down to his very essence, plucked into a million pieces by the sharpest of talons. Needles being stabbed into his organs. Swords running him through. He’s suffocating and burning and freezing and breathing all at once and he wants to scream and cry and rage but he can do nothing except _feel_. Until it’s over and he’s spit out into an unfamiliar world yet again.

The grass is damp beneath his palms and his breath is rough and icy in his throat, burning with each ragged gasp as he coughs and heaves. His stomach seizes and he gags, but nothing comes spilling past his lips beside the disgusting sound of retching. The knees of his trousers are starting to soak through and dirt is embedding under his nails as he digs his fingers into the cold soil. 

His next harsh breath breaks on the exhale, shattering into a high keen as he leans down and presses his forehead to the dirt. This is miserable. He’s clammy and exhausted and each time this happens it feels like he wants to crawl right out of his skin. He’s ripped apart, piece by piece, and remade someplace else. Utterly and completely eviscerated, but never allowed to rest as he’s built up from nothing once more. 

With a wail, his body shudders and ripples. Rapidly shifting forms and reorganizing his bones, his blood, his veins, his mind. Aftershocks of the jump reshaping him into Jaskier. A human. A bard. He could be losing bits of himself in these agonizing flurries of magic and he’d never know. Are you still yourself if you’ve been ripped apart and put back together again?

Tears drip down his nose as a sob rips free of his chest, his fingers tightening their grip on the earth at his temples. He wants to go _home_. He wants Geralt. He wants to see Ciri and tease her on the latest court fashions that she steadfastly ignores while she runs around on the Path. He wants to swap insults with Yennefer, riling each other up until the tension snaps and they dissolve into giggles. He wants to bury his face in Roach’s warm coat and breathe the smells of dust and leather and sweat that permanently cling to her.

He wants to be wrapped up in Geralt’s warm embrace, protected from the world. Nowhere is safer for him than with his Witcher.

Jaskier cries himself dry and then stays curled up on the ground for a time until he no longer feels light headed or nauseated from the magic that courses through his veins. Then, slowly, carefully, he gets to his feet. Stretching out his neck, then his hands, then his arms. Followed by his back and his knees and finally his legs. He’s sore and aching, a bone-deep fatigue dogging his steps as he picks a direction and begins to walk, but the freezing air biting at his cheeks and nose eventually rouses him enough to actually observe his surroundings.

Trees tower above him-- thirty, forty feet tall. Their canopies thick with dense clusters of leaves that block out the sunlight above. Through gaps in the roof he can see a pale blue sky with wispy clouds lazily drifting through it. Frost decorates the trunks of the woods in spiraling fractals and his boots crunch over a thin layer of the stuff upon the grass. There’s no snow, none could make it through the heavy ceiling, but it’s clear to him that, wherever he is, it’s either late winter or early spring.

His eyes are drawn to a pop of purple emerging from the grasses and the frost. Spring crocuses-- blooming in the frozen morn beneath monolithic cousins-- make their presence known and mark the turn of the seasons. Jaskier stares at them blankly for a few moments, the bright purple standing out against the muted green of frost covered sod, his mind empty of any thoughts as he blinks slowly. As he stands there, swaying gently with the breeze that rustles the leaves of the trees and the shrubbery amidst the trunks, he gets a nagging sensation that something isn’t quite right.

Something about this world is off. He feels off balance, and not just physically. Like something is trying to force its way into him, bearing down on his shoulders and pressing at the backs of his knees. If he isn’t careful, if he slips, it could collapse him. 

With a shudder, Jaskier staggers forward, ripping his eyes away from the flowers and marching past them. He needs to find a road. He needs to find civilization. He isn’t prepared to be camping in freezing temperatures, not with just the clothing on his back and few survival skills Geralt has taught him. Survival skills that he can barely recall, his thoughts foggy and slipping from his grasp as they’re weighed down by his exhaustion.

It’s sheer determination that gets him to a road an hour later. The toes of his boots are dragging through the frosty grass with each step, leaving a clear path in his wake. His back is bowed and his head hangs as he keeps his half-lidded eyes upon the ground. If he trips, he isn’t getting back up again. As the grass gives way to hard packed dirt, ridges and ruts carving deep into the earth from the splintering wheels of carts and wagons, Jaskier nearly starts crying again. 

He’s made it to the road, which skirts the edge of the forest, but which direction will take him to the nearest town? The trees fell away to reveal to him large expanses of sky and meadow, sturdy new grasses rippling across the half-frozen land. From one horizon to the other, Jaskier can’t see even a speck of smoke, not even an inkling of people, and his knees tremble as his thighs twinge and ping with exertion. 

Jaskier takes a breath. Takes a step.

The world tilts on its axis and the bard’s head spins as his eyes roll and he suddenly finds himself flat on his back. The dirt is hard beneath his skull and coarse against his left elbow where his shirt appears to have torn. His blood rushes in his ears, his heartbeat throbbing in his fingertips and behind his eyes. The sun is too much, too bright. The blue of the sky burning into his retinas and he can see shadows and shapes writhing in the atmosphere, demons dancing at his disastrous downfall. 

He closes his eyes. It’ll be just for a moment.

Something watches from the woods.

* * *

He inhales deeply, letting his golden eyes slip shut as the crisp air of a still frozen spring burns his nose. The scents of sweet crocuses and sharp ice mingle on the breeze, warmed by the familiar aroma of leather and horse lather and cut by the metallic bite of iron. 

Iron? 

Eskel frowns and inhales again, his hands tightening on Scorpion’s reins as he keeps his eyes closed. His brow furrows with focus. Sharp iron, salty sweat, bitter distress. It’s all faded, though, old smells. None of it current and recurring. Not a good sign. He doesn’t smell the foul stench of any sort of monsters, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one. The most dangerous creatures are the beasts you can’t smell.

“C’mon, Scorp,” Eskel murmurs, nudging his steed’s flank with his heels. Scorpion spurs forward from a walk to a canter, Eskel shifting his weight forward in the stirrups to lift out of the saddle. The quick, yet comforting beat of Scorpion’s hooves on the dirt road eases the tension in the Witcher’s shoulders and he takes a breath to steady his hands.

They come around a bend and Eskel suddenly hauls back on Scorpion’s reins, making his horse rear up with a disgruntled whinny as he turns to the side. “Sorry, boy,” Eskel leans forward to pat Scorpion’s neck. Had he not pulled back so harshly, they would have trampled the man laying prone across the narrow road. Dark hair is swept across a suntanned forehead, long eyelashes brushing high cheekbones. Eskel squints, the man looks vaguely familiar. Were he a bit taller and have sharper features he could be…

“Julian?” Eskel’s frown deepens. His friend and one-time employer isn’t a human, and also not someone Eskel’s seen in at least a year. The elf could be wearing a glamour, perhaps he secured himself a new one. He may have tired of the vitriol of humans and sought out a magical disguise to pass from town to town. It would explain why he positively reeks of Chaos. But not what his friend is doing here in Metinna.

Eskel dismounts and draws his silver sword. He didn’t scent any other humans or non-humans, and he still doesn’t smell any monsters, but better to be safe than sorry. Casting his eyes about, he searches for any visual signs of monster activity. There are some aged scratches on the bark of several trees, most likely from a band of nekkers passing through some time ago, and he can see a few snapped branches in the shrubbery at the edge of the treeline. It’s likely from Julian himself, though, so Eskel sheaths his sword and kneels down.

He presses two fingers firmly to Julian’s throat and, finding the steady thump of his heart, sighs in relief. He didn’t think the elf would be dead, his skin is too rosy for that, but one can never be too sure with a glamour in play. He then rests the back of his hand against Julian’s forehead to check for fever. There’s a slight clamminess to Julian’s skin but his temperature is normal, maybe even a bit low from the cold, so Eskel scoops Julian into his arms as he stands and walks over to Scorpion.

It takes some finagling, but he manages to prop Julian up in Scorpion’s saddle long enough to swing up behind him, wrapping an arm around his sturdy waist. That’s a bit odd, he doesn’t remember Julian being quite so… soft around the middle. More hard muscle from training together.

He nudges Scorpion into a walk and continues on towards the next tiny town. Metinna’s only got two cities, despite being a large nation, and is otherwise populated with hamlets and villages that dot the rolling hills. Julian sleeps for several hours, his weight warm and familiar against Eskel’s chest even if his scent is slightly off. The Witcher wants to chalk it up to the glamour, but something in the back of his head takes this information and files it away for later.

It’s as they’re passing an abandoned farmstead that Julian rouses, taking a deeper breath and fidgeting the way Eskel remembers him to. Julian hums a soft groan as he lifts a hand to his head, rubbing his heel into his eye as he frowns and murmurs, “Geralt?”

Geralt? Since when does Julian know Geralt? And well enough to assume that the person who picked him up and put him on a horse would _be_ Geralt? “Not quite,” Eskel frowns and Julian startles. His sudden movement as he whips around unnerves Scorpion, and the horse comes to a stop. “Julian?”

Julian is staring at him, his lips parted in a surprised ‘O’. His round eyes are darting across Eskel’s face, never pausing on any one spot and Eskel’s not sure if it’s due to familiarity or something else. Something definitely doesn’t feel right here, but he’s not sure what. After a moment of tense silence, Julian closes his mouth and clears his throat, brushing his hair back off of his face but maintaining the uncomfortable twisted position he must be in to look at the Witcher.

“Eskel?” Julian asks tentatively. He looks hesitant to ask, like he’s not sure that he’s correct in using Eskel’s name.

“The one and only.”

Julian’s shoulders relax incrementally, but still retain tension. He starts to turn forward again, stuttering in the movement as though he doesn’t want to turn his back on Eskel, and then completely turning away. He keeps his back straight, though, and carefully holds himself so that he’s touching Eskel as little as possible.

“You can sit back, elf,” Eskel raises an eyebrow. His arm is still loosely wrapped around Julian’s waist, “this isn’t the first time we’ve shared a saddle.”

“It isn’t?” Julian turns his head slightly. Not quite enough to look at the Witcher behind him, but far enough to catch Eskel’s every word.

Eskel’s frown deepens, “No, don’t you remember when--” he cuts himself off. He might want to keep his cards close to his chest. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I, uh,” Julian stutters before taking a deep breath, “Truth be told, I’ve been having a rather rough go of it, as of late, my friend. I was attacked and robbed, not long ago, and then spent the last of my coin on a glamour to appear human.”

Eskel looks at the side of Julian’s head, at the dirty brown hair and the leaves and twigs tangled into overgrown locks. The paleness of Julian’s drawn face and the tension in his jaw and back. His story adds up. But, despite it, something still doesn’t feel quite right.

Eskel hums, “Well, I’m on my way to a contract. Curse breaking. Get a bit of coin to refit you and replenish your stocks.” 

“That’s very kind of you, Eskel, thank you.”

“You think you’re just gonna sit by while I do all the work, elf?” Eskel teases and there’s a hesitation before Julian laughs a bit thinly.

“Of course not. Curse breaking! Right, sounds like a-- sounds like a great time.”

“It’s okay to say no, Julian.”

“No! Ah, no. That’s alright, I can join with.”

Eskel looks at him and hums his acquiescence, “Alright then. We’ll make camp in an hour or so since I’m not worried about you keeling over on me anymore. Then we’ll reach town tomorrow.”

“Mm, sounds like a plan,” Julian nods. He sits quietly for a while, tapping his fingers on his thighs rhythmically. Finally he speaks again, “Eskel?”

“Yep?”

“This might sound like a strange request, but I’ve been… my head’s been a bit foggy since the ah, attack. Would you mind filling me in?”

Eskel mulls over the request. Julian sounds earnest. Sincere. But also timid, nervous. The way he did when Eskel first met him. A broken man, searching for a swordmaster. Julian never did tell Eskel what it was that left him so bereft, and Eskel never pried. Not even when their relationship advanced from teacher and pupil to friends, and further still to casual lovers. They found comfort in one another, Eskel seeking refuge against a loveless world and Julian hiding from whatever he was running from.

“Alright,” Eskel agrees, “What do you want to know?”

“What, ah, what year is it?”

Eskel blinks, “Right out the gate with the strange questions, I like it.”

“Eskel.” Julian says softly, pleadingly, “Please.”

The Witcher’s breath catches in his throat at the quiet desperation and deep exhaustion tainting Julian’s words. He’s never heard his friend like this before. “Okay,” he says gently, “Okay, it’s 1266.”

Eskel sees Julian’s jaw move but no sound slips from the elf’s lips as his tanned hands flex on his thighs and his throat works with a hard swallow, “Alright.”

“Is that your only question?”

“For now.”

Eskel gets the feeling that he’s not telling the truth, but he doesn’t press Julian, letting them lapse into an unusual and vaguely tense silence for the rest of the waning day. Once the sun is low in the sky, and Eskel has spotted a suitable hollow in the swells of grassland to make camp, they dismount. To Eskel’s surprise, Julian starts untacking Scorpion, setting aside the saddle bags and resting the saddle upon the ground so that its own weight doesn’t bow the leather.

“Are you going to hunt? Or make a fire?” Julian glances over his shoulder at Eskel before pausing, looking uncertain, “That is, if that’s what you want to do? I should have asked first.”

Eskel crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow, feeling it tug at the tight skin of his scarred face, “So who have you been traveling with and how come I don’t know about them?”

Julian stiffens, his hands stilling on Scorpion’s bridal. Eskel waits patiently for his friend’s answer, rocking back on his heels and watching the elf’s stiff movements. It takes several minutes before Julian opens his mouth, “I… travel-- I _traveled_ with another Witcher. For twenty-two years,” he says quietly, “here, in this wor-- I mean--” Julian blows a frustrated huff through his nose, tossing his shaggy hair out of his eyes.

He takes a deep breath to collect himself, letting it out slowly. Eskel doesn’t say a word. He grew up with Geralt; he knows what it’s like to need time to collect your thoughts, to rework your sentences. Although he has to admit he’s never seen Julian struggle with it this much. It nags at the sense of _wrongness_ that’s taken up residence in the back of his mind. 

Julian inhales and starts again. Slowly and carefully, considering each of his words before letting them roll over his tongue and pass through his teeth. “I traveled with another Witcher. For twenty-two years. Four years ago, he told me to hit the road. Said I wasn’t worth having around anymore since I caused all his problems. It’s not something I… It’s still difficult to think about but I don’t struggle with it anymore.”

“You sure about that, Jules?” Eskel asks gently, “Sure seems like you had trouble-”

“Not because of that damned mountain,” Julian snaps harshly, his fine features contorted into an angry snarl. The Witcher blinks in surprise, taking a step back and raising his hands.

“Alright. Well then, what _is_ wrong?”

“Eskel, I-”

“Julian, I know we’re not dearest bosom buddies by any means but, you know you can trust me, right?” Eskel frowns, lowering his hands to rest them folded upon his chest once more.

Julian flinches, almost imperceptibly, at the use of his name. But he gives a jerky nod and an overly cheerful smile, “Of course! Now, shall I set up the fire or am I to try my hand at catching a critter of some sort in these great plains?”

Eskel’s frown deepens at the abrupt subject change, but he knows when to back off and gives a shrug, “Are you any good at hunting?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Then I’ll hunt and you make a fire with whatever you can find. Not a lot of wood around here.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Julian salutes him and Eskel rolls his eyes before going into the saddlebags and retrieving his snares and crossbow. If he’s lucky, he’ll find some rabbits or a stream to try and catch some fish in. He leaves Julian at the camp with Scorpion and sets off into the darkening plains, his mutated eyes able to see even as the light wanes with the day.

The setting sun casts brilliant flames of orange and pink across the horizon, gilding the grasses with gold and blazing across the clear sky. The wispy clouds are dyed purple, magenta, lavender, fuchsia, and small insects leap out of the rippling grassland. Baby grasshoppers, the first hatching of the spring, making their presence known in the warmth of sunset, and crickets join in with their chirping chorus. Somewhere, Eskel can hear a field mouse squeaking as it dives back into its burrow, making its bed for the night, as a quail coos to its newly hatched young and a plover peeps amidst the fields.

Eskel sighs softly, letting his hands brush along the tops of the stalks of grass as they tickle the pads of his fingertips and whisper along his knuckles. He wouldn’t mind something like this. A scene of soft light greeting him each morning and evening, spending the days in the fields. He’s thought about it, of course, what Witcher hasn’t? (Except maybe Geralt). What he would be were he not a mutant. He thinks he’d be a farmer of some sort, maybe of livestock or crops, his hands buried in the soil as he tills the earth and sows seeds of a harvest. Or his fingers wrapped around the teats of a goat’s udder with a firm yet gentle grip as he milked to make cheese and butter and whey.

He’d have a house. Nothing fancy. But a home with a yard and perhaps a dog. Something big and shaggy that he can roughhouse with, and it’ll trail after him as he does his choring each day. His house would be little, barely more than a shack, with a lean-to and a separate room for a bed and shelving to display his Gwent collection. A little stove in the corner, a couch tucked up in front of it for warmth, a homemade blanket tossed over the back. Eskel would live here alone, of course, no one would want to…

His mind drifts to the elven mage he met several months before, thinking about the man’s brown skin and auburn curls and spring green eyes that twinkled with mirth as sharp words softened by fondness spilled from pink lips. Eskel had been a coward, a fool, and had run after a single night of passion with the man. There’s no doubt Ashwood wouldn’t want to see him again, not after such a horrible act such as that. But he wonders.

He perks up when he hears the rustle of a rabbit amongst the grasses, barely moving his head and lifting his eyes. He’s been crouched in one spot for almost a half an hour now, and his knees are aching a bit as his quads cramp but he searches for the wriggling tail of his prey. The rabbit is thin, almost unnaturally so, but meat is meat so Eskel raises his crossbow. With a quiet _twang_ , the small bolt is released and pierces the rabbit’s eye.

Eskel stands and collects it before moving another half kilometer further so that he’s away from the stench of blood spilled into the earth. It would scare away any other rabbits for far longer than if he just walks away and crouches down again, and this way he can stretch out his legs. He smells something oddly sweet and rotten in the air, but he ignores it. Some poor animal is probably decomposing nearby. He strings the rabbit onto his belt before settling back down to wait

As he does so, he lets his mind wander again. Something has felt off in recent days. Not just since finding Julian. The air has been thinner, almost like being at Kaer Morhen high in the Blue Mountains, yet he’s in a basin of grasslands. Scorpion has been antsier, harder to soothe and resistant to travel of any kind in any direction, but especially north towards the contract. Eskel’s been waking with gooseflesh, and feeling like he’s being watched, but there’s been no signs of magic in the air. 

Even after coming across his friend, despite reeking of magic, Julian doesn’t send Eskel’s medallion flying. And that’s a whole other jar of worms. Or maybe it’s the same jar? Maybe Julian is involved in whatever is affecting the world as a whole, or at the very least has been affecting Eskel. He sent word to his brothers, asking them about the strange phenomena, but it’s too soon to hear back just yet. 

He has no way of telling if Julian is lying to him about what happened either. As far as he can tell, Julian’s story and symptoms line up. The confusion and memory troubles can be caused by whatever mage may have been in that band of ruffians, and the fact that he seemingly has nothing to his name, the same. Despite the rumors, Witchers can’t _smell_ lies. They can smell baser emotions, and use deductive reasoning and general observation to narrow it down. 

A gray rabbit, this time, hops into view and Eskel raises his crossbow. With the same precision as before, he takes down the prey and scoops it up, frowning slightly as he notes how lean this one is too. He recognizes that it’s early spring, but these rabbits live in a meadow in a temperate climate. The most they’ll get is a bit of snow, not enough to render the land barren like the north.

Eskel lashes the rabbit to his belt and hooks the crossbow over his shoulder as he starts making his way back towards camp. He can see a stringy line of white smoke dissipating on the mulberry horizon, and uses that as his guide. The air takes on a strange smell as he approaches, not just the acrid scent of soot and ash but also like the charged ozone of chaos that burns his nose. Eskel starts to instinctively raise his hand to cover his nose when he stops himself, taking a deeper breath instead and wincing at the sting.

Beneath the stench of magic is an undercurrent of something like decay. Thick and sour and a bit sweet in a festering way that makes your stomach churn and your mouth dry up. It’s like someone threw a rotting corpse on top of a burning pire, but there was no flesh to go up in the blaze, just a fetid corpse.

“Julian?” Eskel calls out, grimacing against the putrid miasma that intensifies with each step closer to the camp, “Julian! What’s causing that gods-awful _smell?”_

There’s no response.

Eskel tries again, quickening his gait, “Julian? Julian, answer me!” When there’s still no reply, not even a whisper on the wind, the witcher breaks into a sprint. His boots pound on the soil, trampling the meadow grasses beneath his feet. “Julian!” It occurs to him that his horse was at camp, too, so he brings two fingers to his lips and gives a sharp whistle, “Scorpion! Scorpion, c’mere!”

There’s nothing for a moment aside from his own thudding steps and the wind whipping at his hair. Then Scorpion, that beautiful bastard, comes staggering over the hill concealing their camp from Eskel. The horse looks unsteady, stumbling side to side and shaking his big head while tossing his mane. His ears are pinned back flat against his skull. Scorpion whinnies to Eskel before dropping to his knees and laying heavily on his side.

“Scorpion!”

Eskel’s thoughts are starting to feel a bit sluggish, but he writes it off as fatigue as he collapses beside his trusty steed. “C’mon, Scorp, buddy. You’re okay. You’re okay, what’s wrong?” Scorpion is breathing evenly, his eyes closed and his side heaving with each deep breath. Eskel presses his ear to Scorpion’s chest and hears his horse’s steady heartbeat, nothing out of the ordinary there. 

He sighs in relief and pulls back to examine Scorpion’s body. He checks the horse’s hooves, legs, and belly. His neck, back, and ears. He lifts Scorpion’s eyelids to ensure that the pupils are still light reactive and then opens Scorpion’s mouth to make sure his throat isn’t obstructed. There’s nothing that seems to be the matter, aside from his horse being deeply asleep for no apparent reason. 

Eskel huffs in frustration and leans down, pressing his face into Scorpion’s flank and inhaling deeply. Taking comfort in the familiar scents of leather and horse and the ash of a campfire and… sweet decay? He sits up straight again and reopens Scorpion’s mouth, bending down to breathe in on the horse’s next exhale. It stinks of grass and ash and that same decay, much, much stronger on Scorpion’s breath. 

It’s more than a little concerning.

Eskel suddenly remembers Julian.

“Fuck. Shit! Shit!” Eskel scrambles to his feet and immediately pitches sideways, his head spinning and the world tilting on its access. “Son of a whore!” He swears as he drops back to his knees, palms scraping on the ground. His cheek stings as his neck wobbles and slaps his face into his own armor spiked shoulder. 

“Julian!” He shouts. It echoes across the open grasslands and still, the elf doesn’t call back. Eskel grits his teeth and forces himself to his feet. He staggers down the small hill and into the hollow, squinting against the low fire light. Julian is sprawled on the ground beside it, looking like he’d stood and walked towards the saddlebags when he passed out. His arm is dangerously close to the flames. 

Eskel coughs and gags as whatever gasses being released by the fire tickle his throat. He needs to put it out before he can get any closer. His vision is blurring and his thoughts feel like they’re a million miles away, but he’s not yet so out of it that he can’t lift his hand towards the light. His fingers feel stiff and unyielding as he forces them into the mirrored position of Igni, an anti-sign that Coën taught him. And the fire goes out. 

The witcher drops to his knees and crawls to Julian’s side, staying below the gasses as they float heavenward. He grabs his friend’s shoulder and rolls him onto his back, lowering his head to Julian’s chest. The heartbeat is a little thready, but he can hear and feel the steady whooshing of air into lungs. With that reassurance of Julian’s life continuing on, Eskel lets himself collapse fully in the dirt, his head pillowed on Julian’s breast. 

He feels exhausted. Wrung out both physically and emotionally. He deserves to close his eyes for just a moment. As they close, he notices that the stench of chaos that clings to Julian smells stronger than it did before.

When he opens them again, there’s a hand in his hair. It’s a pleasant surprise and one that Eskel isn’t wholly used to. He’s still lying on the ground, balled fists tucked beneath his chest and pressed into the dirt, and his head is resting upon Julian’s stomach. He must have moved at some point in the night, comforted by the familiarity of intimacy with this elf in specific, and Julian clearly isn’t protesting if the fingers massaging his scalp are any indication.

“You’ve been asleep for a while,” Julian murmurs when Eskel shifts slightly. His hand doesn’t withdraw and Eskel doesn’t push it away either. The Witcher extracts one of his hands from beneath him and flexes his fingers, grimacing slightly at the pins and needles. 

“Yeah, well, you managed to drug us all with the fire,” Eskel says with a smile, laying his awoken hand upon the elf’s thigh. Julian’s breath catches softly as he tenses for a brief moment with surprise before he relaxes again, switching to stroking Eskel’s short hair. Golden eyes slip shut again as a pleased purr rolls through his chest. 

Eskel moves his hand higher on Julian’s leg and the spiced scent of arousal fills his nose. “I do apologize for that,” Julian says quietly, as though he’s afraid to break the serenity of the morning, “I have to admit, I didn’t know the grasses would release ‘fuck me up’ juice into the air when burned.” He gasps softly when Eskel turns his face into Julian’s soft stomach, inhaling deeply and nosing at the man’s hip.

He turns to look up at Julian, smiling at the soft flush on tanned cheeks and the brightness of his blue eyes as he looks right back. “Is this okay?” Eskel asks, his hand pausing just before the growing swell in Julian’s trousers. 

“Yes, yes, get on with it, Witcher,” Julian says impatiently and Eskel laughs, getting onto his knees to straddle Julian’s hips while kissing the man deeply. Julian responds enthusiastically, his strong arms wrapping around Eskel’s shoulders to anchor the Witcher in place.

As they’re laying together, sweaty and sated and bare to the world, Julian speaks again. Eskel’s head is pillowed on Julian’s chest, the elf’s arm around Eskel’s shoulders as they shiver slightly from the cold spring air. “So what’s this contract we’re heading towards?”

Eskel drags his eyes open again to look over at Julian before shrugging, “Dunno. I told you, we’re curse breaking. I don’t know anything more than that.”

“Are you serious?” Julian raises one eyebrow at him in disbelief, “You’d really agree to a contract with almost no prior knowledge like that? Ge- uh, the other Witcher I traveled with always made sure to have as much information as possible before he even made it to town.”

Eskel’s lips quirk with amusement, “Well, Geralt’s always been a bit of a stick in the mud.”

Julian turns bright red, quickly looking away, “How did you figure it out?”

“Come on, Jules. ‘I traveled with another Witcher for 20 years and we split up four years ago’. And just now you nearly said Geralt. Not to mention, you said his name when you woke up on the back of my horse before you even knew who’d have picked you up. It’s not hard to connect the dots.”

He clears his throat delicately and pauses-- before rolling his eyes and relaxing into the fabric of their discarded clothing. “Yeah, alright then.”

“So what was it like following after that dull asshole for two decades?” Eskel teases and Julian smiles slightly, looking at the sky with an expression of wistful longing.

“It was wonderful. The best twenty years of this life.”

That’s a bit of an odd way to phrase it, Eskel thinks, but then again, Julian’s always been a bit of an odd sort. He nods, seeing clearly not to press the topic, and sits up with a groan as he stretches his arms above his head. His body aches pleasantly and riding will be uncomfortable today but Eskel can’t say he’s complaining about it as his mood has improved significantly.

“We ought to get going then,” Eskel groans as his spine pops into alignment. He gets to his feet and Julian whistles appreciatively from where he’s still lounging on the ground, cheeky smirk tilting his lips. Eskel rolls his eyes and gathers his clothing, “Shut up and get dressed, elf.”

Julian laughs and gets up, the both of them dressing and making their way up the hill to where Scorpion had fallen asleep. Eskel frowns slightly when he doesn’t hear the telltale noises of his horse. Julian glances over at him, his merriment dropping into concern at whatever he sees on Eskel’s face. 

He doesn’t speak, though, and his own expression settles into something grim. It makes Julian look tired and old, older than he must be. Deepening the lines of his face and darkening his eyes. Hardening his mouth and lowering his brow. It’s not something Eskel likes to see.

The Witcher averts his eyes and looks towards where he’d left his steed the night before, Scorpion laying exactly where Eskel left him. Eskel’s frown deepens and he hurries to Scorpion’s side. The horse’s breathing is labored, and there’s foam on his lips as his eyes roll wildly. Overnight, his body has shrunken and his skin clings to his skeleton. 

“What the hell?” Eskel murmurs. He feels cold, colder than he ought to despite the early spring morning. Gooseflesh erupts along his arms as he lays his hand on Scorpion’s heaving flank and he lifts his head. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, the feeling of eyes on him putting him on edge.

Eskel looks around as his medallion trembles with some sort of chaos in the air. He doesn’t spot anything, nor smell anything out of the ordinary. Or more so than already is, so he turns his attention back to Scorpion. He checks the horse’s teeth and eyes and ears, searches his flank for bugs or parasites, but can’t find anything to suggest what could be causing this.

“Eskel,” Julian says suddenly. Eskel looks up at him and his blue eyes are sweeping the grasses around them, “If the grasses knocked us out from breathing their smoke… Scorpion was grazing while you hunted.”

Eskel grabs a handful of the grass and rips it up from the dirt, releasing a cloud of dust and a horrible stench into the air. Decay and rot fill the earth, the soil blackened from hundreds of layers of flesh moldering beneath the meadow. Julian’s hands fly up to his nose as he turns away with a retch, only just barely stopping himself from vomiting. Eskel’s lip curls in disgust as he dips his fingers into the fetid dirt, the squishing of it against his skin making him shudder. 

“That…” Julian sounds a bit choked as he watches Eskel with watering eyes, “Is fucking _rancid.”_

“It’s magic, is what it is.”

“Yeah, well, it’s magic that I’d rather we get very far away from before it gobbles us up, too.”

Eskel frowns, looking up, “I’m not leaving Scorpion.”

“Eskel, look at him. The poor dear isn’t getting up any time soon. If we leave, we can get to a town and get a cart and another horse, or find your contract, or maybe a mage.”

He knows Julian is right. He’s being obstinate but he wants to stick by Scorpion’s side. Eskel buries his fingers in his horse’s mane, scratching the warm neck beneath his palm in a way that he hopes soothes Scorpion, and nods. “You’re right. You’re right we… we should move.”

“We should clear the grass from around his head, too,” Julian says quietly, “Just in case… I know horses can’t throw up so he just has to hang in there until we get back but we should prevent him eating more.”

Eskel swallows thickly and nods, starting to pull grass up by the roots as far down as by Scorpion’s knees. Julian moves around to the other side of Scorpion’s head and begins weeding there, the two of them making quick work of the grass together. They tie the loose grasses up in thick bundles and toss them down the hill before Eskel goes back to Scorpion’s side and runs his hand down the horse’s neck.

“Hang in there, friend. We’ll be back soon.”

Eskel then straightens up and they go back to their camp, shouldering the saddle bags themselves and starting down the road. They walk in silence for a long time before Julian speaks, his voice low so as to gently break the tension. “Have you been on any interesting hunts lately?”

The witcher glances over at him, a troubled frown pulling at his scars grotesquely, “How is that important right now? Shouldn’t we focus on saving Scorpion and figuring out what’s fucking up that meadow?”

“Sure,” Julian nods in agreement, “What we can do to save Scorpion is find an animal healer or a mage. A mage can also figure out what’s wrong with the meadow. Perhaps it’s part of this curse we’re supposed to be breaking. So, we’re going to find a mage or an animal healer or both. We’re doing all that we can. In the meantime, there’s nothing wrong with swapping a few stories to keep our minds off the trouble.”

“When did you get so smart?”

“I’ve been alive much longer than you think, my dear.”

“That’s a fair point,” Eskel concedes. He has no doubt that Julian is older than him, by a good handful of years as well. Elves live long lives, longer than any other creature on the Continent. “Alright. Well, not too long ago I had a contract for a bunch of nekkers. Nasty shits, you know how they are. More pests than monsters, if you ask me, barely worth the coin of hiring a Witcher. A human could kill them. Hell, an overly determined _duck_ could kill them.

“But, I was hired for this nekker contract. Whole nest of the fuckers. The alderman turned me in their direction and sent me on my way. When I got to the location he told me they’d be in, I didn’t see any nekker tracks. Not a scratch, not a nail, not even some of their shit. So I was thinking, what the fuck? It wasn’t the first time I’d been sent on a wayward contract, but to choose nekkers as the thing to trick me with?

“So, I’m searching this clearing for the alleged entrance to a nekker nest when I suddenly hear some chittering. And not like any sort of animal I’ve ever heard. I follow it into the brush and the sounds lead me to this little bitty cave I’d have never seen. It’s just barely visible, even with me searching for it, and when I kneel down to look inside, you know what I saw?”

Julian raises his eyebrows, looking completely engrossed in the story as he leans just a little bit closer, “What?”

“A tiny nest of fairies.”

“Fairies?”

“Mmhm,” he nods, “Fairies. With their little dragonfly wings that look like abalone shells, and these guys had blue and pink hair, like the sunrise kinda. Their skin was purpley? Like a light purple, maybe like a lilac? And they looked at me and you know what they did?”

“What did they do?”

“The mum, she started snarling like nothing! Her little face twisted up and she bared her tiny teeth and it was the cutest thing I ever saw. She sounded like tinkle bells, like those chimes people hang from their houses, and I reached out to try and calm her down… and the little bitch bit me! Chompers, right into my knuckle! Down to the bone!”

Julian gasps and then bursts out laughing, a loud and raucous thing that scares some doves from the meadow that lines the road. He throws his head back and places his hands on his stomach as he laughs until he chokes and then starts coughing. Eskel snorts and thumps him on the back as he doubles over, trying to help him clear his lungs.

“Are you okay?” Eskel chortles and Julian wipes tears from his eyes as he clears his throat and straightens up again. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and nods, his cheeks flushed from laughter and his blue eyes bright with mirth.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright,” Julian tries to get his breathing under control, planting his hands on his hips and letting his head fall back, “Woo! I haven’t laughed that hard in a while, let me tell you.”

“You’ve been having a rough go of it, you said,” Eskel inclines his head and Julian chuckles.

“That’s an understatement.”

“Well, we should reach town by nightfall on foot like we are. I’ve got enough coin for a room at whatever they call an inn and you can speak with the alderman in the morning.”

“What about you?”

“I’m gonna find a mage or animal healer. If there isn’t one, then I’ll head to the next town.”

Julian blinks in surprise, his face going ashen, “You’re going to have _me_ do the curse breaking? _Alone?”_

“Why wouldn’t I?” Eskel raises an eyebrow, “I trained you in curse breaking myself. You’ve been hunting monsters for two years now. I trust that you’re able to handle this.”

Julian stiffens and swallows thickly before nodding, glancing away as he taps his fingers on his thigh, “Oh, yeah. Yeah, definitely, I can for sure… I can one hundred percent handle this. Curse breaking, so simple!”

“Is it, now?”

“I- uhm, yes? I’ve definitely done this before.”

Eskel watches him for a few moments with narrowed eyes. He’s definitely lying, but Eskel’s not sure why. For right now he’ll let it slide. He smiles and laughs, clapping Julian on the back, “I’m just giving you grief, Jules. I’m sure we won’t even have to split up.” Julian hums in half-hearted agreement, now looking increasingly worried about having to curse break on his own. 

They fall into a comfortable silence as they continue their trek towards town, only stopping at midday when the grumbling of Julian’s stomach can’t be ignored any longer. As the sun is sinking upon the horizon, they cross over the border of a tiny village. There does seem to be a tavern of some sort, with a second story even, and stables. So maybe if they’re lucky…

Eskel sends Julian to secure them a room while he starts asking around for an animal healer or mage. Most of the villagers shy away from his grotesque scars and luminescent eyes, but he manages to get just enough of them to talk to him that he learns of a mage between this hamlet and the next. He pays his informant a few ducats and then heads back for the inn, glancing around the tavern. 

There aren’t many people in here, just a few men slumped at one of the tables as they pick at their dinners, and Julian sitting in a shadowy corner as he nurses an ale. There’s two plates on the table, both full of food, although one looks like it’s been scavenged a little bit by nimble fingers. 

Julian jumps slightly as Eskel sits down across from him, clearly having been lost in thought, “Any news?”

“There’s a mage, halfway between this village and the next,” Eskel nods, picking up his fork and digging into his meal, “I’ll go find them tomorrow, see if they’ll portal us to Scorpion, and get him fixed up.”

“And by ‘us’ you mean…”

“Me and the mage. I need you here to find out what you can about the curse.”

Julian sighs softly, “I figured as much. I’ve already asked around a little bit because of that. Any livestock that eats the grass has been poisoned, same as Scorpion. Rapid weight loss, foaming at the mouth, etcetera. Although the other animals aren’t falling asleep and staying asleep, I believe that’s because he breathed the smoke like we did.”

Eskel nods, “Makes sense. So even though they’re poisoned they’re not dying?”

“They… are,” Julian’s face twists unpleasantly, “Whatever this curse is, if they eat the poisoned plants, it turns the livestock’s hearts to ash inside their body. At least that’s what the autopsy revealed on each of the sheep and pigs that have succumbed. It’s a slow acting curse, gives them a few days before they pass.”

“Hmm, I’ve never heard of anything like this before. But I can ask the mage about it tomorrow while you continue to ask around for more information.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Julian closes his eyes, his knuckles resting beneath his cheek. Eskel feels a pang of regret for the way he’s been doubting his friend. It’s clear as day that Julian’s been having a difficult time as of late, it shouldn’t be surprising to him that things are a bit jumbled in Julian’s head. The elf probably needs a good night’s sleep and then he’ll be right as rain again.

“You should head up to bed,” Eskel says gently and Julian peels his bloodshot eyes back open again.

“How come? I ought to keep you company, don’t you think?” He tries to shoot Eskel a winning grin but it comes across as more of a pained grimace.

Eskel chuckles softly, “Maybe so, I do enjoy your companionship, my friend. However, you look like you’re about to fall asleep right here. And sleeping upright is bad for any neck, you know this.”

“A fair point.”

“So, go on then, get. What room are we in?”

“Four,” Julian stands up with a yawn, his knees popping as he stretches, “I’ll leave the door open for you.” Eskel inclines his head and watches Julian go upstairs before finishing his meal and drink. He considers the rest of Julian’s meal, and decides it’s best it not go to waste, so he eats it as well. Eskel can’t remember the last time he was pleasantly full like this, most taverns won’t serve witchers even one meal, let alone two.

Julian is already asleep in the only bed when Eskel enters the dark room. The scent of chaos on Julian’s skin is a bit stronger again. The pale light of the moon spills across his face as he slumbers curled on his side, his boots on the floor beside the bed. Most of his rings have been removed except for two: one that Eskel recognizes as a family heirloom and the other being a silver string of thorns with a blue and black stone pressed into the band. 

He’s never seen anything like it, and Eskel vaguely wants to touch it, but he keeps his hands to himself as he undresses and climbs into bed beside Julian. The warm, comforting presence beside him lulls him quickly to an uneasy sleep filled with dreams of Scorpion and decay.

Eskel wakes early, he always has. He rises before the dawn, before even the rooster, when it’s still dark outside and the sky barely a hair less indigo than it remains through the night. It’s overcast, he notes as he glances out the small window, and the slow, steady breathing of Julian beside him tries to pull him back to sleep. He looks over at his friend, his companion, and feels a small pang of loneliness.

It doesn’t even make sense, Julian is _right there_. Eskel’s not alone. And yet he feels more alone with the elf at his side than he does when traveling solo on Scorpion’s back. For the life of him, he can’t figure out why. Julian’s in good health, even if he’s acting a bit oddly at the moment; Geralt and Lambert are alive, as far as he knows; Vesemir awaits him at the start of the next winter, as he always does; there’s no reason for him to be feeling this way.

Julian snuffles softly in his sleep and curls up tighter with his back to Eskel, not even his body heat reaching the witcher’s skin. Eskel sighs and reaches out, his hand hovering over Julian’s arm for just a moment, before he pulls back and rests it on his stomach and turns to stare at the wooden beams of the ceiling. Is that why he’s feeling lonely?

He got so used to Julian being tactile with him, even before they engaged in friendly sexual relations, that to not have his friend’s touch now is a burden upon his skin. He feels empty and aching and desperately wants to reach out to Julian. To pull Julian into his arms and press his nose into soft brown hair; which is a bit odd to see, he’ll admit, considering Julian was blond the last he saw him. To feel the warmth of Julian’s breath against his chest and feel the small twitches and twerks of dreams that tug at Julian’s limbs.

Would it be so bad to indulge himself?

If he were to reach out and pull Julian closer, if he were to wrap his arms around the elf and hold him tight, that wouldn’t make him a bad person. Not if Julian were receptive to it. He’s a witcher. How bad could he possibly be? 

Eskel swallows thickly and takes a breath, gently turning onto his side to face Julian’s back. Yes, he’s wasting time that could be spent heading for the mage, but this feels important to him. Julian’s never been shy about sharing space before, so why would he be now? Eskel reaches out and lightly wraps an arm around Julian’s waist, pulling the elf against his chest. Julian doesn’t protest, stirring only the slightest amount to rest a hand atop of Eskel’s own. The witcher sighs silently in relief. See? This isn’t so bad. He’s not a horrible person, he’s just doing what comes naturally.

Eskel lays silently, closing his eyes and slipping himself into a meditative state for a while as he enjoys the warmth against his chest and the callused fingers against the back of his hand. Eskel focuses on the feeling of rough fingertips pulling against the small scars on his own. He doesn’t feel the calluses of sword handling though, and he opens his eyes again in confusion.

Eskel glances at Julian and flips the elf’s hand over, lifting it into the meager moonlight. Julian’s hand has some scarring on it, the usual kinds from paper cuts or hangnails or scuffed palms, but he’s lacking the tough blisters he had built up only a year prior with Eskel’s help. All that remains on his smooth skin are the calluses of a bard on his fingertips. He frowns and glances over at Julian again, who’s now watching him with sleepy blue eyes.

“What’re you doing?” he asks groggily, blinking slowly. He doesn’t look perturbed to be pressed up against Eskel’s chest, and the witcher mentally reprimands himself for not noticing Julian wake up and turn his head. 

“Nothing,” Eskel shakes his head, dropping Julian’s hand and sitting up, “Go back to sleep.”

Julian yawns and rubs his eyes, “Where’re you going?”

“Gonna get going before the sun rises to get to that mage. Dunno how far away they are.”

“And you’re sure you want me to stay here and start questioning people?” 

Eskel nods and pulls his shirt on, lacing up the collar and then shrugging on his jerkin and doublet, “No sense in taking longer than necessary to break this curse.”

Julian nods and sits up, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed and stretching his arms above his head. His spine pops and his bones creak and Eskel glances over suspiciously. He’s never heard the elf’s joints groan the way they do now, not even after hours of vicious sparring. He files it away, along with the lack of calluses and odd behavior, as he pulls his boots on.

“I’ll be back hopefully by this evening,” Eskel informs him and Julian nods again, his head bobbing slightly as he fights to stay awake long enough to pull his own slightly dirty doublet back on again. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“I shall do my v--” Julian yawns loudly and gives his head a shake, “very best, darling Eskel.”

Eskel scoffs fondly and jostles Julian’s shoulder as he picks up his swords and small travel pouch and closes the door behind him. He creeps as quietly as he can through the inn, stopping in the tavern below to get some rations from the kitchen stores and leaves some coin behind the bartop with a quickly scribbled note as to what it’s for. He then steps out into the crisp morning air, bitterly cold without the sun to warm it as the sky is lit a hazy gray.

The world is damp and the cold soaks through his clothing and seems to settle deep in his bones almost immediately. That’s a bit odd. Eskel purses his lips as he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up, a shudder rolling down his spine. His medallion trembles upon his breast and he glances back at the inn. Julian will be okay, whatever magic is causing this is low level enough that he needn’t worry about the elf. 

_If he’s an elf at all._ A voice that sounds suspiciously like Lambert’s distrusting sneer whispers to him. Eskel doesn’t want to believe it, but he files the doubt away with the strange occurrences. If Julian isn’t an elf, then what is he? Regardless, there isn’t enough magic around for it to affect a human, or whatever else Julian might be, so Eskel takes a deep breath and starts down the road.

The problem, with Eskel’s outlook on the way his medallion is humming against the red and gray stripes of his armoured doublet, is that he isn’t a bird. A bird can soar much higher and much farther than any human or witcher ever could imagine. And as such, a bird can see much farther. If Eskel were a bird, he’d know that it’s not a small amount of magic making his medallion vibrate, making the hairs on his neck stand on end. If Eskel were a bird, he’d see the kilometers and kilometers of decay poisoning the earth, spiraling outwards in sickening tendrils to touch more and more of the Continent. To rot each and every single iota of life.

But Eskel is not a bird, and so he sticks his hands in his pockets as he walks along the dirt road with his medallion humming and the gravel crunching beneath his boots. His breath colors the air in front of his face, white and wispy on the blue light of the brightening earth. The air is completely still, not even a hint of a breeze to rustle the grasses lining the road. It’s like the entire world is holding its breath, and gooseflesh prickles the skin of his arms beneath his shirt. 

With grit teeth and nerves on edge, Eskel stiffly walks for half a day. The sun rises behind the thick cloud layer, unable to permeate the darkness that cloaks the land in a murky gray threat of rain. The air he breathes remains humid in his lungs, carrying the scent of atmosphere on it and stinging the inside of his nostrils. He flexes his hands in his pockets, the leather of his worn gloves creaking softly, and hurries his steps. He’d really prefer to be back at Scorpion’s side before any rainfall.

It’s just after midday when he spots a cottage set back a fair distance from the road. It looks unnatural in the way it lists to one side but doesn’t topple, the walls thicketed with moss and vines that shouldn’t exist in grasslands such as these. The roof bows beneath the weight of a fungus garden that sprouts out of the shingles, mushrooms dotting the green lichen that clings to the slipping slate. Eskel tilts his head curiously and takes a deep breath. Something about the scents wafting from the cottage, sage and rosemary and the ozone of chaos, is oddly familiar to him.

Eskel glances at the haphazard garth surrounding the house and the plentiful herbs and plants growing within it, seemingly unaffected by the bitter cold of early spring. The magic in the air is thicker here, and different. With the two kinds so starkly beside one another, Eskel can tell that the chaos of the curse is darker and heavier, thick with the sweet scent of rot and decay, while the mage’s magic smells more clarified and of the heady aromas of herbs.

“Are you going to stand out there all damned day or are you going to knock?” A startlingly familiar voice makes Eskel’s head whip towards the cottage. The front window is open and a man with evellian features is hanging out of it, tawny skin rich against the greenery framing the sill. His curly red hair is drawn back in a severe bun, the shaved hair at the sides of his head a bit longer than Eskel remembers.

“Ashwood?” Eskel squeaks, “What are you doing here?”

Ashwood levels him with an unimpressed glare, “I _live_ here. What are _you_ doing here?”

“You live here? But I thought you lived--"

“Had to move,” the mage interrupts him, “After I last saw you, some witch hunters came through and burned down my house. Thankfully without me in it, much to their disappointment.”

Eskel blinks, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sure you are,” Ashwood straightens up and brushes nonexistent dust from his teal shirt, “Now, what are you doing here?”

“I… I was told there’s a mage. I need help.”

“Have you the coin for my help?”

“The… coin? Ashwood, you know me,” Eskel frowns in confusion, pushing away the guilt tugging at his chest, “I’ll of course pay you for your time but--”

“But what, Eskel?” Ashwood opens the front door of the cottage, cocking one hip defiantly and placing his hand upon it, “but you won’t fuck me again? Because last time was _so_ horrible you left without so much as a goodbye and now you look just _shocked_ to see me again.”

“Ashwood that’s not--”

“What was it? The cunt? My cock?” Ashwood looks _livid,_ “I’ll help you, Eskel, but not because we’re friends or anything close to that nature. I’m a professional after all, and if you have the money to afford my services then I’ll assist.” 

Eskel frowns and casts his eyes down to the dirt at Ashwood’s boots, “You don’t have to, if you’d rather not. I can find another mage.”

“You won’t. The nearest other mage would be Keira Metz and she’s all the way in Verden. Now, tell me what it is you need.”

He clears his throat and clasps his hands in front of him, “My horse, Scorpion, is ill. Before you say anything, yes I’ve searched for an animal healer. I believe his illness is of a magical nature.”

Ashwood arches one eyebrow at him, “He didn’t happen to eat the grasses, did he?”

“How did you--?”

“This entire country reeks of something dead. My plants won’t grow in the natural soil here,” the mage explains, “only reason they’re thriving is I replaced all of the earth and have wards in place beneath the surface to prevent the disease from tainting it again.”

“Do you have any idea what could be causing it?”

Ashwood shakes his head, “Haven’t the slightest. Whatever it is, it’s powerful magic.”

“Powerful? It’s felt relatively weak the entire time I’ve been experiencing it.”

“Mm, see, you’re focussing on how it’s affecting you,” Ashwood says, not unkindly, “But it’s not just affecting you, right? Yes, there’s lingering chaos in the air, but it goes down to a myopic level that curdles the nutrients in the soil and poisons any plantlife. Possibly affects water sources too, I haven’t studied it that in depth yet.”

“I don’t understand,” Eskel shakes his head and Ashwood steps back, inviting Eskel into the cottage.

“Come in, I’ll make us some tea and try to explain better.” Eskel follows Ashwood into the house and looks around as the mage goes to the hearth to hang a kettle over the flames. Herbs and root vegetables hang from the ceiling to dry out and there’s a somewhat rickety table laden with potion ingredients in the center of the main room. Wormwood and lavender and wolfsbane and hollywart are only a few of the many plants Eskel can see piled atop the surface. 

Ashwood flicks his fingers and the potion ingredients sort themselves into jars and containers on the counter behind him as he retrieves his tea blends from a cabinet, “You look a bit tense, do you mind if it’s a relaxing tea?”

“Uhm,” Eskel’s voice cracks and he clears his throat, “Uh, sure, that’s fine.”

Ashwood glances at him and rolls his spring green eyes, “Sit _down_ , Witcher, I won’t bite.” A chair knocks into the backs of Eskel’s knees and he sits down abruptly with a soft grunt, the wood groaning under his weight.

They settle into a slightly awkward silence for a few moments as Ashwood prepares the tea. The kettle whistles and he pours the hot water into two cups, the sweet aroma of jasmine mingling with the earthier scent of rose and the bright citrus tang of orange in the air. Eskel can’t resist taking a deep breath, his eyes slipping shut for just a moment as some of the tension in his shoulders melts away. 

Ashwood presses the warm cup into his gloved hands and he can feel the heat of the tea radiating through the leather and into his palms. “Thank you,” he says, his voice a bit rough as he opens his golden eyes again to look up at the mage. Ashwood has a strange expression on his face as he looks back at Eskel before shaking his head and sitting down across from the witcher at the table.

“Alright, so the best way I can explain--”

“Wait,” Eskel stops him, swallowing thickly as those luminous green eyes raise to meet him curiously, “I… before we continue I wanted to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left the way I did when we saw each other last. I-- it had nothing to do with _you,_ Ashwood. We-- I-- you have to understand, the number of people willing to… to lay with a witcher is slim. I… I became concerned that I was just a novelty to you, which does you a disservice because you’ve never displayed that kind of character to me. But I grew frightened all the same and I left. It’s no excuse for my behavior, but I wanted to explain and I’m sorry.”

Ashwood looks at him with an unreadable expression for a long moment. He then nods once, a gentle tipping of his chin, “Thank you for your apology, Eskel. I admit, it’s a relief to hear your reasons for your swift departure. I’m not sure if I’m ready to forgive at this exact moment, but I do appreciate you taking the time to explain to me and help me understand your feelings.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now, the best way I can explain the way this magic is like… a leak in your roof. Say your home has a sagging roof and it collects water when it rains. The water will soak through the roof and into the framework of your home, warping the wood and rotting your abode from the inside out. That’s what this magic is like. Somewhere, a good deal of it was released all at once, and it’s slowly been seeping into the earth and spreading out further and further from the epicenter.”

Eskel nods slowly, taking a small sip of his tea as he listens, “So to stop the rot, we need to find the epicenter? The source of the magic?”

“Mhmm,” Ashwood hums in affirmation, “Whatever it is, it’s powerful and there’s a _lot_ of it. Considering how low level the magic is where we are? It’s spread very far from its source.”

“Are you able to tell me what the magic does?” Eskel asks, “Scorpion ate the poisoned grass, and overnight it seemed like he lost forty pounds and he’s foaming at the mouth. Julian, a friend of mine, burned some of the grasses, before we knew they were poisoned, and the smoke drugged us both. It would have killed us if I hadn’t put the fire out before we fell unconscious. And the earth… I’m sure you’ve seen what the soil looks like beneath the surface.”

Ashwood nods, “I have. It’s disgusting.” He blows a sharp huff out through his nose as he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, “It’s a curse of some sort, I’d assume. Steals the life of things. What it does with that life force I haven’t the faintest, but it sounds like that’s what the magic does.”

“Can you help Scorpion?” Eskel asks, his voice sounding small, “He doesn’t deserve a death from poisoned grass.”

“Most likely. I saw you didn’t bring him with you, where would he be located? We can portal to him.”

“Past the town to the east, maybe ten kilometers out. Not far from the road.”

Ashwood nods and finishes his tea before depositing the cup in the washbasin and gathering a few different herbs into a bag, “These will help Scorpion recover his health. While I can remove the poison, I probably won’t be able to negate its effects on him. He’ll need to be nursed back to health.”

“Thank you, Ashwood,” Eskel stands and reaches out, catching Ashwood’s elbow in his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, “This means a lot to me.”

Ashwood’s Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, but he doesn’t shake off Eskel’s hand, “You’re welcome. Come along now, how long has he been poisoned?”

“Since the evening before last,” Eskel follows the mage out of the cottage, gently closing the door behind him, “You don’t think he’s…?”

“Doubtful. This magic seems to work slowly. Leeching the life away from its victims instead of capturing it all at once. Almost as though it’s powering something,” Ashwood rips open a portal, the winds created by his chaos ruffle the meadowgrasses and pull loose debris into the swirling vortex. Through it, Eskel can see road identical to the one he walked from town, but also a copse of flowers that he remembers seeing not far from the hollow he and Julian had camped in.

“That’s pretty close,” Eskel glances at Ashwood, impressed, “How’d you know?”

“A combination of your directions and a brief little peek-a-boo inside your head,” Ashwood shrugs and strides through the portal. Eskel blinks, unsure if he should feel like his privacy has been violated or not, before following. As always, his stomach knots and flips and his heart stutters uncomfortably while the world spins as he passes through the portal. It’s through sheer force of will that Eskel doesn’t vomit, he knows Geralt would, and the portal closes once they’re through.

Ashwood places his hands upon his hips as he looks around with a critical eye at the waving stalks of grass, distrust etched into the soft lines of his face. “Alright, where’s your mighty steed, sir Witcher?” Eskel snorts in good humor and waves for the mage to follow him as he walks down the road to where he left his horse. 

Scorpion is exactly where he was a day and a half ago, and the witcher feels a pang of guilt tug at the corners of his lips at the sight of his half-dead friend. The horse’s sides are heaving and there’s a puddle of damp earth beneath his head from the foam still oozing between his lips. Scorpion’s bloodshot eyes roll wildly as he huffs and snorts, his nostrils flared and dripping with mucus. 

Ashwood’s face drops into concern as he kneels at the horse’s head, running long fingers down Scorpion’s neck, pressing gently on bulging veins and muscles to try and ease the steed’s discomfort. Scorpion snorts and then whines and Eskel goes to open his mouth, to say something, when Ashwood shushes them both with a murmur. 

Eskel’s medallion jerks upon his chest as Ashwood’s magic begins to work. The mage closes his eyes to focus and Eskel stands quietly with his arms crossed over his chest, nervously gnawing on his lip as he feels the chaos swell in the air around them, making his skin tighten and tingle like little crackles of static are rushing over it. Scorpion’s gasping and heaving breaths deepen, becoming more even as Ashwood works, and the foam on his lips stops building.

Scorpion’s eyes fall shut as the horse drops into sleep and Ashwood sits back on his heels, his cheeks lightly flushed and a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. He wipes it away with his sleeve and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he opens his eyes again. He gives Eskel a nod and the witcher’s shoulders sag in relief as he drops to his knees at Scorpion’s side. It feels like a weight has been lifted off of him, and he doubles over, burying his face in Scorpion’s flank and inhaling deeply.

The only scents of the decaying magic that remain are what lingers on Scorpion’s coat from laying in the grass, no longer poisoning his blood.

Eskel takes a few moments to collect himself, blinking back the heat that threatens to spill over in his eyes, before sitting up again and clearing his throat, “Thank you, Ashwood. What do I owe you?”

Ashwood waves his hand, “Bring me along for figuring out the curse and you won’t owe me a thing. My curiosity has been piqued, so I’m willing to work pro bono.”

“Are you sure?” 

The mage gives him a dull look, arching one eyebrow at him, “If I wasn’t, would I have said so?”

Eskel swallows and ducks his head slightly with embarrassment, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Now, he’ll need to rest for some time, why don’t we see if someone can get us a cart and horse to bring him to town with? I can’t levitate him all the way there, but for a few moments to get him in a cart I can.”

“So, another portal?” Eskel can’t hide the sigh in his voice and Ashwood smiles with a small laugh as he gets to his feet.

“Another portal,” he nods and takes a few steps away, ripping open the portal to the village. It’s just as dank and on the verge of rain as everywhere else has been, a few people walking through the village center in their drab rags. Hoods pulled up, cloaks gathered around them to ward off the chill of spring and impending rain. The wind has picked up again, a brisk breeze carrying the frost on it as it whips through the village. 

Eskel and Ashwood pass through, the witcher gritting his teeth against the wave of nausea, and the portal closes behind them. Eskel can see that the mage is starting to become fatigued from magic use, but Ashwood doesn’t say a word, his shoulders drawn back and head held high as he leads them through the village to the alderman’s house. Ashwood raises a hand and raps his knuckles twice upon the door.

“For the gods’ sake,” Eskel hears a male voice mutter inside, sounding exasperated, “Never any visitors and suddenly I can’t get rid of visitors!” The voice draws closer to the door before it’s thrown open to reveal a squat man with beady eyes and a thick beard. Eskel blinks in surprise. You don’t often find dwarves as the aldermen of human villages.

“Yes?” The dwarf demands irritably, “I’m entertaining company right now, can I help you?”

Eskel glances over the dwarf’s head, into the house, and sees Julian sitting in front of a blazing fire. Julian’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he gets to his feet, walking over slowly, “Master Baelgrum, this is my acquaintance, Eskel. I was telling you about how we’re here to break the curse.”

The dwarf, Baelgrum, looks skeptically at Eskel before nodding once, “Aye, you did. And who’s this other ponce?”

Ashwood’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he mouths ‘ponce’ silently and Eskel has to bite back the urge to laugh while Julian’s eyes drift skyward in exasperation. “I’m afraid I’m unacquainted with him.”

“Ashwood of Daevon,” Ashwood gives a small bow, “mage and healer.”

“And an elf,” Baelgrum frowns, waving vaguely at Ashwood’s pointed ears. Ashwood’s polite smile becomes wooden as he straightens up again and crosses his arms over his chest.

Eskel jumps in before any animosity can arise, “We’re in need of a cart and a horse. My horse has just recovered from illness and needs to be transported to town.”

The dwarf scowls, planting burly hands on his thick hips as he glares up at Eskel, “have you the coin?”

“I can assure you, we do,” Julian adds quickly, “A cart and a horse or some animal that can pull Eskel’s trusty steed would be greatly appreciated.”

Baelgrum hums a gravelly noise of discontent but nods, “Alright. I’ve got a cart you can use and we’ve an ox. Should be able to haul your horse.”

“Excellent, thank you so very much, Master Baelgrum,” Julian takes the dwarf’s hand and pumps it twice. Baelgrum rolls his eyes and pulls away.

“I haven’t got any other information about the curse for you, boy, so be on your way.”

“Absolutely,” Julian dips into a sweeping bow before stepping out of the alderman’s house, Baelgrum going out back to hitch his ox to the cart.

“Did you learn anything new about the curse?” Eskel asks and Julian’s lips twist unpleasantly as he suddenly looks older, his cheerful expression dropping.

“There’s a forest, not far from here, that people are afraid to enter,” Julian sighs, nodding his head in the direction of alleged forest, “They disappear when they enter, never come out again. No one has been able to go near it for fear of being captured by whatever is stealing the other people as well.”

“Sounds more like a monster and less a curse,” Ashwood cocks his head curiously.

Julian nods in agreement, “It does… except for the fact that when people disappear everything is forgotten about them.”

Eskel’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, “Forgotten?”

“Indeed. The only reason the village knows people disappear is they remember the events leading up to sending the person out to the forest. They know _someone_ has gone, but no one can remember who.”

“That’s similar to how the fae like to play,” the witcher murmurs, “but they wouldn’t poison the earth like this.”

“Could it be that someone human has poisoned the earth and the fae are taking their retribution?” Ashwood suggests and Eskel looks thoughtful.

“It’s possible. Only one way to find out.”

Julian looks less than enthused as he sighs with a nod, “We go to the forest.”

“Do you want to come along to get Scorpion, Jules?” Eskel pushes his hair out of his face, the wind blowing the dark locks into his eyes, “Or stay behind and try to get any more information about the curse?”

“I’ll stay behind, if you don’t mind, Eskel darling,” Julian looks tired as he leans against the outer wall of the house. Baelgrum leads the ox and cart around the front.

“Not at all. We’ll see you later, then.” Julian waves them off as Ashwood and Eskel climb onto the driving board of the cart, taking the reins from Baelgrum and snapping them to urge the ox forward. They sit in silence for a while until the village has fallen behind them and then Ashwood speaks.

“So that was Julian, huh? I have to admit, he wasn’t what I was expecting a witcher’s traveling companion to look like,” Ashwood raises his eyebrows curiously.

Eskel glances over with a small shrug, “he’s an elf as well. Wearing a glamour currently.”

“Is he?”

“Well, he doesn’t look like an elf right now, wouldn’t you say?”

Ashwood hums and looks forward again, thoughtful, “Poor bastard, named after the coward prince.”

“The what?”

“Prince Julian Pankratz? Last of the Pankratz line?” Ashwood glances at Eskel’s face and at the blank expression he elaborates, “I would have thought witchers are familiar with evellian history, what with you all being as long lived as the elves. The Pankratz’s were part of, and _the_ last of, the royals of ages past. A special line of evellian blood that wields great power. During the Great Cleansing, Julian Pankratz ran away from the battle and his duties as prince and left his people to die.

“To be named after him is an insult; or, at least, according to my mother it is.”

“Huh.”

“It’s also odd that, while your friend is absolutely drenched in magic, none of it is a glamour,” Ashwood says off-handedly, “It feels wrong, whatever magic is affecting him. Kind of like the magic poisoning the earth, but not quite the same.”

Eskel frowns, “What do you mean?”

“You can’t feel it?” the mage turns to look at Eskel fully, “Whatever curse has taken hold of this land isn’t right. The magic feels all twisted and corrupt, like someone shoved a piece from a different game into the jigsaw puzzle we live in.”

“That’s not vaguely terrifying.”

Ashwood gives him a thin smile, “Quite. And your friend’s magic feels like that as well. Like it doesn’t belong.”

Eskel’s frown deepens as he falls silent. He’ll need to confront Julian at some point about all of this. Something just isn’t adding up and Eskel’s determined to find out what, exactly, is going on. 

The two of them are relatively quiet as they make the drive back to Scorpion’s side, Ashwood occasionally pointing out places where the curse is curdling plants and stealing the life from the rodents that live in the grasslands. Eskel’s sense of unease does nothing but grow the longer they’re away, and the clouds have continued to darken overhead into a roiling tempest, heavy with rain that threatens to fall at any moment. 

Once Scorpion has been loaded into the cart, along with his tack that Eskel and Julian had left by the remains of their deadly fire, they make their way quickly back to the village, the last of the day’s light slipping away beneath a bleak horizon. The sky is dark, with no moon or stars to lighten it, as the storm clouds rumble and groan from the weight of the water gathered within them. Julian is waiting for them at the inn, looking pale and dark shadows under his eyes. His fingers roll along the bar he sits at, his legs crossed and foot bouncing rapidly.

He looks like a frightened rabbit, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. What happened while they were gone? Eskel approaches cautiously, laying a hand on Julian’s shoulder. The elf(?) jumps violently as he whips around to look at Eskel, his heart thundering against his ribs.

“Lilith’s _taint,_ Eskel,” Julian gasps, placing a hand on his chest as he takes a deep breath, “Warn a man next time, will you? You’re quieter than a damned foglet.”

Eskel chuckles and sits down in the seat next to Julian, Ashwood perching on a stool on Eskel’s other side, “Eat anything yet, Jules?” The strength of the chaos stubbornly stuck to Julian is heavier again, and Eskel can tell that even Ashwood notices as the mage squints at Julian.

Julian raises his tankard of ale, “Wheat. That counts, yeah?”

Ashwood snorts and covers his mouth with the back of his hand. Eskel raises his eyebrows curiously. “Sorry. It was funny.”

“I aim to please,” Julian smiles faintly, looking exhausted. 

“Are you okay?” Eskel asks quietly, “You look a bit…”

“Like shit?” Julian waves off his concern, “I’m fine, dear. Just feeling a bit… out of sorts.” His lips twitch and he looks away from Eskel as he snickers to himself. Eskel doesn’t quite get whatever Julian’s laughing at and just shakes his head.

“If you’re sure.”

“Why don’t we order dinner then? Get something to eat and maybe Julian won’t be looking quite so peaky,” Ashwood suggests. Eskel nods in agreement and Julian doesn’t protest. 

After they’ve eaten and gone off to bed, Ashwood ordering a second room to stay in separately from Julian and Eskel, Eskel finds himself staring at the ceiling. This curse is leaving a bad taste in his mouth, and he’s not sure if it’s because the food they’ve been eating is tainted with it or it’s the general feeling of unease that’s settled onto him like a second skin, wrapping up his lungs and pressing on his heart.

He ends up meditating through the night, listening to Julian’s breathing that’s just a little too uneven for him to be sleeping either. 

In the morning, they eat a meager breakfast and set out for the forest before the sun has risen. The wind from the impending storm has whipped into a gale, snatching their voices away and billowing their heavy cloaks around them. Julian keeps his head ducked, his hood up to hide his face as he watches the road they walk along, and Eskel glances at him periodically. Something doesn’t feel right. 

It’s different from the sense of _wrong_ he’s been feeling the past few days. This wrongness is tied to Julian, radiating off of him like heat were he fevered. But his face is pale and his eyes carry dark shadows beneath them, his cheeks slightly hollowed with stress and fatigue. Eskel catches him twitching a few times, his shoulders pinched in and his arms held close to his chest. With each jerk, that chaos smell swells then fades until the next twitch.

The twitching gets worse the closer they get to the forest that’s looming on the horizon, increasing in intensity and even making Julian stumble as the thick miasma of rot and decay settles in their lungs. Eskel squints at the trees, tilting his head slightly.

The tops of the trees are bowed and curling, and they stand at sharp angles as though reflected in a shattered mirror. The grasses leading up to the forest’s edge are blackened and stiff against the howling squall. Dust lifts into the air in tall whirlwinds that strike out and sting their eyes with the filth. Their throats become coated in blight, dirt melding with the muggy tension of the tempest that brews in the roiling and writhing beastial pall above their heads. Nothing is alive, yet something pulses deep in the forest like a slow beating heart.

Eskel sees Ashwood shudder out of the corner of his eye, the mage’s arms wrapping around himself in a meager facsimile of protection against the growing pits in their stomachs. Without noticing, they’d all stopped walking, standing and staring at the forest with blank expressions and building trepidation. Eskel takes a step forward and it fractures the spell that held them in place, his companions following after a hesitant beat. 

The moment they cross the threshold of the forest, all sound disappears. Silence covers their breaths, their steps, even their heartbeats, and Eskel wonders if he’s suddenly gone deaf as the stench of decay becomes overwhelming. His skin feels heavy, like he could sluice a thick layer of fetid air from it, but there’s nothing to be wiped away. No way to cleanse himself of the weight that bears down on him from all sides. It’s completely still, and yet he doesn’t say a word.

The deeper into the forest they go, the more Julian’s twitching affects him, making him lilt from one side to the other, hunched over with his arms wrapped tightly around his stomach against whatever pain he’s feeling. Eskel desperately wants to ask what’s wrong, what’s ailing his friend, but something stops him and his lips remain sealed. 

They enter a clearing, the putrid chaos feeling the strongest it’s been since entering the forest. Eskel can smell ash, but not from a fire. It’s the soot of something that’s decayed to the point of disintegration, carried away on the unfeeling wind. Leaving behind nothing but bones.

Julian stumbles at his side, his leg spasming and knee buckling beneath his weight. Eskel darts forward, grabbing at Julian’s arms. His exposed forearm brushes against Julian’s wrist as the man’s sleeve slips up, and the moment their skin makes contact Eskel stiffens. Showers of sparks go off behind his eyes and his head begins to throb as he suddenly sees into a void of everything and nothing at all.

“What the _fuck!”_ Eskel jerks away as Julian rips himself free of the witcher’s grip. 

The exclamation eviscerates the silence of the woods and sound rushes back to them in a cacophonous clang of thunder. Lightning strikes with an ear shattering crack somewhere nearby, yet no inferno erupts amongst the deadened trees. The flash of blinding light illuminates the woods, throwing the trees into stark radiance that reveals horrible slashes to the bark.

The trunks are splintered, gutted by an enormous force. Some are split from root to tip, bowing in a thousand strands like fraying rope. Others are scorched by devouring flames, long dead and decimated by the force of the blaze. Lightning sears the sky and with another bellowing _crack_ , the heavens divide and a torrential downpour thunders down upon them. 

In an instant, their hair is soaked and sticking to their skin. The ground absorbs the rainfall, soaking up the water and swelling with the mass of it. The fetor of decay and chaos rises from the earth as the ground bucks and churns beneath their feet. Ashwood shouts in surprise, stumbling forward to grab on to Eskel’s armor. His green eyes are like saucers as he watches the world around them reel and whirl. 

A deafening roar screeches through the trees on the howling gale. 

Eskel claps his hands over his ears as Ashwood does the same, Julian collapsing to his knees as he screams in tune. A flutter of movement catches Eskel’s eye and he raises his gaze, his mouth dropping open as terror strikes his heart and freezes his blood. Looming over them, taller than any being Eskel has ever seen, is a creature out of his nightmares. 

It flickers and wavers like smoke as its jaw unhinges and he can see black saliva dripping from the gaping maw that houses three rows of razor sharp teeth. Another bellowing shriek echoes through the clearing and Ashwood turns away from the demonic visage, tucking his face against Eskel’s shoulder.

“What the fuck _is_ that thing?!” Eskel shouts, reaching for his swords. Ashwood’s hand darts out to grab his wrist, stopping him from his weapon.

“No! Look!” He points to where another shadowy figure has arisen from the warped earth. “The forest is showing us _memory.”_

As he says it, the phantasm dissipates into the rain and the shadowy figure is joined by another. Their forms are flickering and almost invisible amongst the deluge, but Eskel can just make out the long, dyed blond hair and pointed ears of Julian. Which doesn’t make any sense at all as Julian is curled up in the mud only a few feet from him. 

Shadow Julian waves his hands forcefully towards the shadowman, vibrances of flames erupting from his palms and searing the charred trees. The shadowman throws something, maybe a potion, and as it shatters on the ground the split trees tremble. Shadow Julian’s mouth drops open in a silent shriek as he explodes into black fire before unraveling into nothing. The memory fades on the rain, just as the monster did, and the forest is left as miserable as it was before, rot pressing in on all sides.

The earth no longer heaves beneath them and as Eskel looks at the Julian on the ground, the chaos surges and Julian _splinters._ His body erupting in shifting patterns of skin to fur to scales, pieces of him jumping into the air and dropping back to his huddled form, bursts of stardust rocketing out from his thrashing shape. He screams in agony.

Just as swiftly as it began, the splintering stops. It leaves him gasping for breath and sobbing into the mud that squelches between his fingers as he drops his head to the ground. Eskel pushes Ashwood behind him, drawing his silver sword and aiming the tip at Julian.

_“What are you?”_

Not-Julian’s shoulders shudder as he gags, vomiting up whatever meager breakfast he had consumed that morn. Eskel’s sympathy wanes the longer he goes without answer and he stalks forward, scowl in place. How dare this-- this _thing_ carry his friend’s face? Pretend to be Julian? Even as Julian clearly was involved in some sort of battle and he… 

Eskel stumbles over a step as he glances back to where the memory had shown itself. Is Julian even alive?

His heart drops and aches as grief threatens to tear it in two and his face twists into a mien of rage. He takes one last thundering step forward, rainwater splashing up around his boot and over not-Julian’s clothing and drenched hair, and he lodges his other foot into not-Julian’s side. The kick knocks not-Julian over and he cries out in pain as he rolls onto his back.

Eskel plants his muddied boot onto not-Julian’s chest, feeling the satisfying creak of ribs beneath his weight. He presses the edge of his blade to the man-- creature-- _thing’s_ throat, bearing down with just enough force to split tender skin. Not-Julian is looking up at him with terrified eyes, the reeking stench of fear rolling off of him and mingling with the fade of chaos again.

“I’ll ask again,” Eskel growls, just barely loud enough to be heard over the downpour, “ _what are you?”_

“Jaskier!” not-Julian yelps, “Please, gods, please don’t kill me! My name is Jaskier, I’m a bard, I’m-I’m-”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Please, please, please--”

“I just saw a memory of my friend being _unmade,”_ Eskel snarls, leaning in closer. Water drips off his crooked nose and onto not-Julian’s face, “And you want me to believe that you’re the bard that traveled with Geralt for twenty years?”

“Yes! Yes, because I _am!_ I-I-” not-Julian gasps, his mouth working silently for a few moments.

Eskel sneers at him, “What’s wrong? Wolf got your tongue?”

“The curse! The curse I know what’s caused it!”

“Eskel…” Ashwood says from beside him, laying a hand on Eskel’s shoulder, “I think he’s telling the truth.”

“What truth?” the witcher demands, turning his face to indicate his attention but not taking his golden glare off of not-Julian. “That he’s a fucking _liar?_ That he wears my friend’s face and allowed me to think he was Julian? That _he’s_ the cause for the curse?”

“I’m not!” not-Julian starts to shake his head but hisses as it pulls his skin across the sharp edge of Eskel’s blade, “Please, I’m not. I-I think I know what caused it and it was caused long before I got here, I _swear.”_

“ _Eskel,”_ Ashwood’s grip tightens, “You trust me, right?”

Eskel’s jaw tightens. He does trust Ashwood, but he doesn’t trust this not-Julian-allegedly-Jaskier person beneath him. He doesn’t trust the way magic is soaked into his every fiber and that the magic feels _wrong_ . It feels _other._ He doesn’t trust that not-Julian lied to him, pretended to be someone he’s not just so Eskel would… so Eskel would do what? All not-Julian has done has been helpful, aside from nearly killing them, but that’s not his fault. He couldn’t have known about the grasses. If he did, he wouldn’t have poisoned himself, right?

The witcher growls, pulling back but leaving the sword in place, “Explain. You have two minutes.”

Not-Julian sighs in relief, his shoulders slumping slightly as it’s clear he’s not about to die at that exact second, “My name really is Jaskier. I’m a bard and I traveled with Geralt of Rivia. Not for just twenty years, though. Geralt and I have been traveling together for near on forty, now. I-I don’t know who your Julian is, I assume he’s this world’s version of me.”

“This world’s version?” Ashwood raises one dripping brow, “What does that mean?”

“I-I’m not from here. This universe. I--” Jaskier glances at the sword still at his throat, “I’m sorry, I know you’re being a Big Bad Scary Witcher right now but I’d really be able to think and communicate better without the blade at my throat. I’ve had so, _so_ many of them recently.”

“Eskel, let him up.”

Eskel glances at Ashwood incredulously, “You’re not serious? He’s been _lying_ to me for three days! And you can feel the chaos on him, can’t you?”

“I can,” the mage nods, “And I can also read his mind. He’s not lying anymore. Or, at the very least, _he_ believes what he’s saying.”

The witcher groans but pulls the sword away from Jaskier’s throat, “Don’t try anything fucking funny, you understand?” He brandishes his blade threateningly and leaves it out of its sheath in warning.

Jaskier raises his hands as he slowly climbs to his feet, his left arm shuddering and twitching as it rearranges itself again and he grimaces. Ashwood’s eyes are drawn to the magic immediately, narrowing in curiosity. “What’s that about?”

“I- I’m not sure,” Jaskier shakes his head, “I think it has something to do with the way I travel through universes.”

“The magic that’s clinging to you _does_ feel like it’s not from this world,” Ashwood crosses his arms as he shivers in the heavy rain.

“Tell us about the curse,” Eskel changes the subject. He’s getting impatient.

Jaskier swallows hard, looking ashen and shaky but standing tall as he nods, “I think it was caused by a creature created by a mage named Stregobor.” Jaskier launches into his story, explaining how Geralt, Princess Cirilla of Cintra, and himself were being pursued by the beast in their home world. Cirilla opened a portal for them to escape through when Jaskier was grabbed and the portal collapsed on him, sending him to a random universe.

“At first, there seemed to be some-some sort of _order_ to it,” Jaskier huffs, his cheeks tinged pink with frustration, “I had to find this book in the first universe, and then I had to help reconcile Geralt with that universe's version of myself. But now… gods I just don’t know. All I know is that, at some point, it was here and I think it’s what’s causing your curse.”

“This creature can pass through universes as well?” Ashwood asks and Jaskier nods. “It might be why your… your _shifting_ is acting up here, where the magic of the beast is strongest.”

Jaskier looks miserable, his blue eyes downcast and his arms wrapped around himself in more of a show of self-comfort than warmth. His hair is plastered to his pale skin and his waterlogged clothing hangs heavily on his tall frame. Eskel watches as part of Jaskier’s face shifts and shudders and he closes his eyes against the sensation.

“Does it hurt?” 

Jaskier glances up at the witcher, hesitating before nodding, “very much.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Like I’m being torn apart, piece by _fucking_ piece,” Jaskier says quietly, “Like every single part of me is being ripped to shreds and scattered on the wind, only to be snatched up again and shoved into a mold of myself, pressed together until I am remade. But am I still myself anymore? I am a puzzle without instructions and a master blind to the shape of my edges. I wonder if I lose pieces of me with each wild shift, each uncontrollable jump and jolt of my body as I’m torn asunder once again. If I have been shattered time and again by a mallet of malfeasance, and it is an uncaring universe that picks up the jagged shards of myself to haphazardly piece back together, how can I possibly know who I am anymore?”

There’s an uncomfortable silence. 

“Perhaps we can help you get back to your original universe,” Ashwood says, delicately changing the subject, and Jaskier perks up slightly.

“How? No one’s been able to yet.”

“First, I’m not just anyone,” the mage smiles, “Second, we can use you to soak up all this residual, strange magic, break the curse that way. It’ll essentially, in theory, supercharge you and maybe give you the strength needed to direct yourself home.”

Jaskier glances around the dark clearing nervously, lightning flashing and illuminating the demolished trees and uprooted terrain. His eyes linger on the evidence of magical battle, and he rubs his arms slowly. “Would it hurt?”

“I don’t know.”

Eskel watches as Jaskier thinks, taking his time to deliberate over his decision. His left leg shifts and he inhales sharply from the pain, dropping to the ground as he loses his balance. “Okay,” Jaskier nods, the moment he’s able to catch a breath again, “Okay. Let’s try.” Ashwood nods once and steps forward to help Jaskier to his feet. 

“Are you sure?” Ashwood murmurs, Eskel only able to hear over the rain because of his enhanced hearing, “we don’t know what this could do.”

Jaskier's voice is small and sad and so bitterly heartbreaking as he says back, “I just want to go home.”

The witcher looks away, feeling uncomfortably exposed. He understands how it feels to be ripped away from your family, to be held far away from your home and have to create a new one. To be undone and then remade in a shadow of your former self. It’s the basis of being a witcher after all.

“Okay,” Jaskier’s voice is shaky and thin as he collects himself, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, “Okay, what do I need to do?”

“Nothing at all,” Ashwood says soothingly, running his hands down Jaskier’s arms, “I’ll take care of everything magical, alright? You just stand there and look pretty.”

Jaskier’s lips twitch, “Finally, something I can do.”

Eskel wants to smile. He wants to find the humor in this situation just as Ashwood jokes and Jaskier tries to put on a brave face. But he can’t help the feeling of creeping dread that eases up his spine, weighing down his breaths and tightening his throat. 

He wants to smile, but all that pulls at his lips is a frown.

Ashwood steps back from Jaskier, his boots audibly squishing in the mud beneath his heels. The rain rolls down their skin, heavy with the smells of ash and decay that each fat raindrop soaks up and carries with it. Eskel watches uneasily as Ashwood raises his hands, extending them towards Jaskier, and closes his eyes.

For just a moment, the world stands still. The rain lowers in volume and intensity, the wind pauses in its howling wail, the air holds its breath as magic swells around them. It gathers beneath the earth and weighs down the atmosphere and bows the trees, everything bending towards Ashwood and Jaskier and then hesitating. 

Just for a moment.

Then Jaskier starts to scream.

Ashwood frowns but doesn’t let up immediately, allowing the chaos to flow from the ground, from the sky, from the trees and the grass and the rain. It flows into Jaskier, who shrieks a bellowing scream of agony. 

He doubles over, body shifting rapidly and sparkling with stardust that explodes off of him like fireworks. Jaskier’s handsclawsflipperstalons dig into his hairfeathersfur at the top of his head, gripping tightly and yanking. His skinscalesfur ripples and jolts faster and faster. 

Sweat drips down Ashwood’s temple, mingling with the rain as his cheeks flush. He grits his teeth against the effort of channeling the chaos into the bard. Jaskier’s screams jump an octave as he collapses.

His nosebeaksnout is pressed into the mud with his forehead, sobs ripping free of his lungs and kneestoestailelbows digging into the earth. Eskel reaches out towards Ashwood, his hand hovering at the mage’s shoulder as he watches Jaskier writhe and thrash upon the ground.

“Ashwood, maybe we should-”

“I’ve almost got it!” Ashwood grunts, eyes screwed up shut and lips parted in a grimace, “Just a moment longer, Jaskier!”

“ _STOP! STOP, GODS, PLEASE STOP!”_ Jaskier wails, curling up tighter as his limbsbody _corpse_ shifts faster than Eskel’s eyes can follow. 

Ashwood yells wordlessly and takes a step forward, every muscle tensed against the raw power of the chaos the witcher can feel snapping and smarting against his skin. Eskel is about to stop the mage himself when a concussive blast sends them flying. Light flashes through the clearing in great blasts of luminescence that burns itself into his retinas.

He hits a tree and everything goes dark.

“Eskel…”

“Eskel, wake…”

“Come on, Witcher, don’t make me…”

“Eskel!”

Eskel’s eyes snap open to meet spring green ones looming over him, Ashwood’s nose only centimeters from his own. The mage looks tired, purple bruises under his bloodshot eyes, his tawny skin ashen from fatigue. But he’s also smiling faintly as he sits back on his heels with a relieved sigh.

“Thought you were a goner there,” Ashwood murmurs, turning his face to the rain. Eskel looks up.

The downpour has softened to a gentle drizzle, and the clouds lightened to slate gray as sunlight pierces through them in thin beams. The rain is clean, the fresh aroma of petrichor wafting up from the sod in the clearing, not a whiff of decay to be found. Even the horribly mangled trees look gentler in the light, the exposed pulp hardened and tiny buds at the ends of damaged branches.

He sits up slowly, his head aching. Throbbing where it hit the trunk of the tree he was slumped at the base of. He glances around the clearing, empty except for the two of them. “It worked?”

“The curse is gone,” Ashwood answers, “I can’t feel any of that horrid magic anymore.”

“But did it work?” Eskel repeats, more adamantly. He thinks about the terrible screams that had punched straight through him. His voice is weak as he asks desperately, “did it work?”

Ashwood looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers in his lap. He takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly. Takes another.

“Ashwood?”

The mage turns to look at him.

“I don’t know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


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